Finding His Way Home
by DobbyRocksSocks
Summary: Sherlock has returned after taking out Moriarty's web, but it's John who still needs to find his way home.


**Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.**

* * *

 **Finding His Way Home**

* * *

It was a cold day out, but John barely felt the chill as he trudged through the park, his body moving on autopilot as he tried to organise his mess of thoughts into some semblance of order. His life was in shambles.

His wife, the normal, bubbly Mary Morstan was in fact an assassin that had, at one point, been tasked with his death.

The child he'd thought was his belonged to another, and she hadn't ever intended for him to know.

His best friend… That was a mess he had no idea how to even begin trying to fix, and the knowledge that it was all his fault was weighing down on him perhaps harder than anything else.

For the second time in four years, John Watson was alone with no idea what he was supposed to do or feel.

Slumping onto a bench, he dropped his face into his hands, his elbows propping them up on his knees. He was a mess. Mary… he couldn't lay all the blame on her, of course. He'd been stupid. She should never had pursued him, but he let her and he accepted her and after she shot Sherlock, he went back to her.

That was on him and him alone.

He'd been content; that was a lie and after lying to himself for so long he refused to do it anymore, even in his own head. He was resigned to his life with his murdering wife and his child that he was struggling to bond with.

Until he'd found the folded paper in Mary's bag. It was stupid, he'd only been looking for the back door key when he found it.

A Paternity test.

A name on it that he didn't recognise. Not his own. Rosie Watson wasn't actually a Watson.

His entire life, the life he'd chosen for the sake of this child, had crumbled around him in the middle of his living room as he read and reread the letter that stated he wasn't, in actual fact, a father. He'd left the letter on top of Mary's bag and left the house in a daze.

He'd been walking since then but the jumble in his mind wouldn't fix and he didn't have any idea what he was supposed to do next. He mobile had been ringing and pinging in his pocket, calls and texts that he wasn't interested in answering.

Mary was the only one who bothered to ring him these days anyway, and she was about the last person on the planet that he had any interest in talking to. The way he was feeling at the moment, she could drop dead and he wouldn't care.

As the sky darkened around him, John stayed still, his head resting in his hands, his elbows digging into his knees. He only realised that tears were streaming from his eyes when a familiar scent assaulted his nostrils as someone sat down beside him.

* * *

Sherlock was bored! No cases, no experiments, no John. No John… that was probably the important one. He hadn't seen his best friend for weeks and it hurt more than he'd ever care to admit aloud. John had cut him out completely after months of taking care of him, and they just…

Didn't talk.

Didn't see each other.

Didn't call.

Didn't even text.

It was driving Sherlock insane!

He'd always been a little in love with John, ever since he shot the cabbie although he didn't know it at the time of course. Spending so much time away from his blogger had only reinforced those feelings and he knew now without a shadow of a doubt that he was John's, utterly and completely, even if John never actually knew about it or returned the sentiment.

You might like to go to Regents Park. MH

Why? SH

Sherlock scowled at his phone while he waited for a response. Why on earth would he want to go to the park? It was bloody cold out and it was getting dark.

John. MH

What about John? SH

His mobile rang and he answered on the first ring, lifting it to his ear immediately.

"What's wrong with John?"

"He's been sitting in the park for hours without a coat. He's sitting on the bench closest to the children's play park, and while I can't actually tell, it appears that he's crying. He's got his head in his hands anyway."

Sherlock was already putting his feet in his shoes when he replied with, "Do you know what's happened?"

"Haven't the faintest, I'm afraid," Mycroft replied, sounding slightly chagrined at having to admit that he didn't know something.

"I'm on my way. Keep an eye on him and let me know if he moves, okay?"

"Of course."

Ending the call, Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and left the flat, putting them on even as his feet hit the pavement. He walked quickly, dialling John's number as he did.

No answer.

He tried again, still no answer.

Shaking his head he stuffed his phone in his pocket and pulled his scarf tighter around his face to protect against the wind. It took him less than five minutes to get to the park and only another four to locate John.

Taking a deep breath, he sat down on the bench beside his best friend and lifted a cautious hand to rest it on his back.

"John?"

* * *

Sherlock put a hand on his back. John blinked at the touch, wiping at the tears with frustration. He sat up slowly, glancing to the side to see his best friend watching him with an unsure look on his face.

"Mycroft?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock confirmed. "John, what are you doing out here? You're freezing."

Shrugging slightly, he wiped away the remnants of his tears and cleared his throat. "I'm fine. You didn't need to come. You're right, it's cold out."

"John?"

The questioning tone was clear, and John wanted nothing more than to tell Sherlock everything he was thinking and feeling but he didn't even know where to start. He'd already had his marriage and the belief that he was a father collapse from under him, he didn't really want to implode whatever was left of his relationship with Sherlock on top of that.

"I… I don't… I just had to get out of the house. Really, Sherlock, you didn't need to come here. I'm fine."

"Why are you lying to me?" Sherlock asked after a moment's pause. The hurt in his tone struck John in the chest like a hammer.

"Rosie isn't mine," he whispered. "After everything… after I went back for the… she's not mine. I found a paternity test in Mary's bag. I didn't recognise the name but… it wasn't mine."

"Oh, John, I'm so sorry," Sherlock murmured. "Why didn't you come home?"

Hearing Sherlock reference 221B as home was a step too far for John's fragile mind to take and he laughed bitterly, tears filling his eyes once more. He shook his head.

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"I just can't. You can't ask me to do that, Sherlock, you just can't."

"Well, I can and I am," Sherlock argued. "Why can't you?"

"You deserve so much more than what I've given you, Sherlock. You can't ask me to come home, because I will, and I'll never leave, and I won't subject you to that. You… you deserve better. Go home, Sherlock."

"Good idea, come with me," Sherlock demanded, his hand moving from John's back to grip his hand. Sherlock stood up, pulling John with him, and without giving him the option, began dragging him in the direction of Baker street.

John let him, any fight he had left in him gone. He felt… empty. His legs moved, his body following Sherlock even as his mind emptied completely, blissfully silent. The only thing that felt real was Sherlock's hand gripping his own. He concentrated on that feeling and let the rest of the world fall away.

He blinked when Sherlock let go of his hand, surprised to find that he was in the flat, staring at the chair that had always been his.

"Sit down, I'll make you some tea," Sherlock said quietly, pushing him into the chair gently by the shoulder.

John did as he was told, only now realising just how cold his hands were. The warmth of the flat was making the cold of his skin more noticeable and he shivered slightly.

Minutes later, and John had a steaming cup of tea on the table beside him and Sherlock was standing from where he'd been building a fire.

"John… I think we need to talk, clear a few things up," Sherlock said, pulling his own chair closer to John's before he sat down. "You said that I deserve better. What did you mean by that?"

John stared at him for a moment, debating slightly on how much to say. Should he concentrate on trying to get their friendship back to where it was, or should he go for broke?

"I… I've never put you first, and I should have. It wasn't… you deserve that, Sherlock. You do. I never put you first, but it wasn't because… I was, I am, scared. You could… you could so easily become my entire world, Sherlock, you could, and if that happens and then I lose you again… It almost killed me last time. I wouldn't survive it happening again.

"So I married Mary even though I knew, I knew the moment I saw you in the goddamn restaurant with that stupid French disguise, I knew that I wanted nothing more than to come home to Baker Street with you and just pick up where we left off. And I tried so fucking hard to find a balance. I wanted to be able to come with you and do cases with you, and just be with you, but I had her, and she knew, she knew that it was you I wanted and she hated it and I hated it, but it was just…

"And then she shot you and I almost lost you again, and I thought my heart was just going to stop beating. I can't… I don't… Sherlock, life doesn't work without you. It doesn't make any goddamn fucking sense when you're not there, and that's now. That's when we're friends, close friends, but still, just friends, and the way I want you, the way I crave you… It's too much. It's all too much, and I can't. I just… I can't."

Sherlock stared at John as the words poured from his mouth. John couldn't meet his eyes, and he jumped slightly when Sherlock's knee knocked against his own before a hand reached up to caress John's cheek gently, the fingers warm and soft against his skin.

"You're home, John. This is where you belong. At Baker Street. With me. I… I love you, John. Let me have you? Let me keep you for… Let me keep you for always. I promise, John, with everything in me, I promise that I'll do everything in my power to keep us together forever. Just… love me, and let me love you back?"

"Sherlock," John gasped, looking up to meet Sherlock's eyes. They shone with love and affection and it was truly the most breathtaking sight John had ever seen. "I do love you, Sherlock. I've always loved you. I will always love you."

Their lips met, and every cliche John had ever known flashed through John's mind as a rush of love for the man in front of him flowed through his entire being.

This was what he needed.

This was what he craved.

This was home.


End file.
